


On Your Knees Boy

by DoreyG



Category: Richard II - Shakespeare
Genre: And Richard issues let's face it, Awkward stripping, Community: kink_bingo, Henry is often quite bad at doing what he's told, M/M, Mentions of monkeys, Obedience, Powerplay, Slight foreshadowing, Throne Room!Sex, Wildcard, and father issues, depressing endings, floor!sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-08
Updated: 2012-07-08
Packaged: 2017-11-09 11:22:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/454898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoreyG/pseuds/DoreyG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Stay there,” Richard mercifully interrupts him. And, even more mercifully in his humble opinion, doesn’t summon the damned monkey, “don’t move.”</p>
<p>“…I wasn’t going to,” he murmurs instead of thank you, for a simple thank you is for <i>fools</i>.</p>
<p>“Hm,” Richard doesn’t pay a bit of mind, only remains on his throne for a long few moments before rising to his feet – observing from a new vantage point like he could happily leave him kneeling for eternity, “I don’t <i>trust</i> you, sweet cousin. You have a way of wriggling.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Your Knees Boy

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the wildcard square on my Kink_Bingo (my second one, woo!), mainly because I've really, really been wanting to write Richard/Henry being absurdly bad at obedience FOREVER. Most visual cues are based on the recent BBC Hollow Crown production, since that's the one I've seen most recently. The monkey is mentioned, but does not feature.

“Kneel.”

And he does. Spreads his arms and sinks to the floor, waits there obediently as Richard gives him a slow look over and one of those faint smiles that means that he’s either pleased or thinking about summoning that damned monkey.

…He really hopes that Richard isn’t thinking about summoning that damned monkey. 

It’d be a profound moodkiller, after all. Like his son capering in and asking for a detailed discourse on relationships with other men, or his dead mother suddenly rising from the grave and crashing through the window to give her profound disapproval, Or the very _thought_ of his father ever finding out about this.

(…He is an _idiot_ -)

“Stay there,” Richard mercifully interrupts him. And, even more mercifully in his humble opinion, doesn’t summon the damned monkey, “don’t move.”

“…I wasn’t going to,” he murmurs instead of thank you, for a simple thank you is for _fools_.

“Hm,” Richard doesn’t pay a bit of mind, only remains on his throne for a long few moments before rising to his feet – observing from a new vantage point like he could happily leave him kneeling for eternity, “I don’t _trust_ you, sweet cousin. You have a way of wriggling.”

He frowns a little at that. It’s a heartfelt frown, and not only at the thought of kneeling in front of Richard for _eternity_ , “do I?”

“Indeed.”

“I’ve never noticed it.”

“And maybe I’m just saying it to fuck with your mind,” Richard says cheerfully, noting the frown (and probably his discomfit at the eternity bit, he wouldn’t put sudden mind-reading skills past Richard) with a glee that somehow manages to be both absurdly infuriating and oddly arousing at the same time, “but that’s besides the point, you _wriggler_.”

…He keeps frowning, just to be safe. Can’t quite figure out whether to glare or not.

And so expects it, for Richard has _always_ known exactly when to take advantage of his confusion, when the man finally makes his move. Steps forwards, once and then twice, until he’s standing right in front of him with a faint smile upon his face and a hand already reaching out to slide under his jaw.

“Hm.”

“…You have _got_ -“

But Richard is already moving on again. Already sliding that hand out from under his chin, _just_ as he was starting to relax, and starting to trail around him – robes floating out, fingers still barely keeping contact over neck and shoulder and back and even _hair_ when he can’t seem to resist the urge to briefly ruffle.

“Richard,” he says, maybe a _touch_ plaintively as the man trails his fingers over his second shoulder.

…But _the man_ (he doesn’t deserve any greater title, he doesn’t even deserve a proper name) simply ignores him. Only smiles faintly, _intentionally_ , and keeps making his circuit – now with fingers briefly tapping against his collarbone, now with them tracing over his Adam’s apple, now with them rubbing under his chin in a way that _must_ be a taunt.

“Richard,” he sighs this time, maybe a touch _more_ plaintively as he refuses to lean into Ri- _the man_ at all.

Rich- _the man_ at least deigns to laugh at him this time, though he can’t figure out if it’s mildly affectionate or plainly mocking, and starts to trail over his shoulder _again_ , and shifts closer to him so he can feel the brush of a body that he _may_ actually be conditioned to by now, and generally acts like a irredeemable _git_ in so many ways.

“ _Richard_ ,” he whines at the top of his lungs, so plaintively that even puppies would look vividly jealous.

“Impatient today,” a pity that Richard- _the man_ has always struck him as more of a cat person. Cold, haughty, capable of great tortures like tracing _nails_ over the back of his neck as he passes again, “aren’t we?”

…He grunts.

“ _Aren’t we_?”

He entertains a brief, and _vivid_ it must be said, fantasy of strangling Richard (the man, he’s fucking obnoxious no matter what he’s known as) and laughing manically over his no longer baby-talking corpse.

…But then Richard’s hand tightens on his other shoulder, like that sudden mind reading has manifested _again_ , and he tucks such fantasies away for the next parliament. Straightens himself on the cold stone floor as those fingers ease and reach up to tug at his earlobe, swoop down his neck again to scratch at his collarbone, press briefly over his Adam’s apple _yet again_ before warmly coming to rest under his chin.

He arches an eyebrow, expecting another cruel movement.

He gets tilted up instead, ever so slowly until he can meet Richard’s far too impassive eyes and see the faintly amused curve of his mouth.

They stare at each other for a long moment.

“Alright,” that curve gets wider and he _knows_ that Richard is silently laughing at him. Guffawing. _Cackling_ because he’s Richard and the king and _Richard_ and he apparently finds every single bit of the annoyed confusion that his presence inevitably provokes _hilarious_ , “strip.”

He starts to rise, chanting a rather loud thank _fuck_ in his own head… Finds himself somewhat amazed that Richard can shove him back down without a single hand on any part of his anatomy besides his chin.

“Did I _say_ anything?”

“How?” He retorts flatly, resisting the urge to cross his arms over his chest and pout in a heartfelt manner, “seriously, how the _fuck_ am I supposed to get naked if I have to remain on the ground? I’m pretty sure that it’s actually _impossible_ to get rid of your shoes by bending over backwards.”

Richard just leers at him in response. Which is, yet again, _entirely_ unfair, “I never had any problem with it.”

…He _glares_. And, okay, maybe tries not to blush hard enough to catch the attention of the guards doubtlessly patrolling somewhere outside (because that’d be embarrassing and they would tell all of Richard’s counsellors and thus his uncles and thus his _father_ and _oh God_ ).

Richard… Just smirks, while somehow managing to continue that leer through force of sheer will, “you’ll manage.”

And so he has to.

…Vaguely.

His upper half is easy enough, since he’s not exactly _kneeling_ on that, and so he gets it over and done with first. The doublet is easy enough to unbutton, to part from his shirt with a minimum amount of fuss. He has to rock awkwardly forwards, almost into Richard’s crotch, to get the bottom half of it out from under his knees – but after that it’s pretty much plain sailing and so fine, _absolutely_ fine.

Until he takes his shirt off and places it neatly over his doublet.

…Until he realizes the rather pressing problem of his hose and shoes, made most definitely worse by Richard actually chuckling above him like he’s never seen anything so funny in his whole damned life.

Ugh.

_Ugh_.

It’s the chuckling that, mainly, drives him on. It’d be easy enough to just get his cock out and glare at Richard until he mockingly declared the task done, but that just wouldn’t be _satisfying_. He finds it easy enough, with some wriggling, to slump onto his side from a kneeling position – finds it even easier, with a bit of strain on his elbows, to push himself up and get his hose fully over his hips. And from there it’s practically _simple_ to flop over onto his back and arch up to get them fully down his legs. His shoes, in truth, are only a minor obstacle that he has to sit up for-

…Briefly.

_Very_ briefly.

For the moment that he’s got fully naked, and proudly ready to proclaim it so, Richard has already taken his cue and pounced – pinning him to the floor with weight and lust and a _very_ eager mouth. Nipping at his lips, sliding his tongue into his mouth, pushing in so deep that the only possible reaction is another arch and a _burn_ of arousal.

…Fuck.

Which is just unfair, really. Yet again. On _many_ levels.

_Fuck_.

He finds himself moving, without much conscious thought, until they’re slowly tipping over – Richard’s clothed back against the stone floor and him bracing above. Finds himself thrusting down, _down_ , into the soft heat of Richard’s robes flopping open around them with the same amount of thought – for Richard is warm against him and he is already hard and Richard is giving half held back whines from the back of his throat and he wants them to be flesh to flesh and crying out into each others’ mouths and- _and_ -

And they tip over again.

Until Richard is straddling his waist, grabbing his wrists and pinning them to the ground above his head. Glaring at him but finally looking affected. _So_ affected – with hair mussed and crown almost falling off his head and cheeks flushed bright, bright red.

“I am _king_ ,” when he finally speaks his voice is shaky, half rumbling and half squeaking.

“And so you must always be on top?” He replies, equally shaky. Awkwardly bending his hand (his wrists will hurt tomorrow. That’s alright, they’ve hurt often enough before) to rub his fingers against Richard’s skin.

“No,” Richard glares but he still doesn’t stop, just keeps rubbing (and caring little for tomorrow), “but I’ll be on top when I _say_ I’ll be on top.”

…He arches his eyebrow again.

“Fuck _off_ -“

Rolls his hips up, since it has more chance of success. Is _gratified_ when Richard lets out a full volume whine and slumps down to press their foreheads hard together – sticky and sweaty and so close that he swears he can feel the bat of Richard’s dark eyelids against the side of his nose.

“…And fuck _you_.”

“Gladly,” he rumbles, _definitely_ as shaky – if not more shaky, if not so shaky that it’s a miracle he hasn’t shattered into a thousand rather embarrassing pieces by now, “but _not_ without oil.”

There’s a long pause.

“Fuck you again,” Richard says sweetly, and _shoots_ off him in a way that really shouldn’t look so unfairly graceful. Heads for the throne at record speed as he props himself up and simply watches. Scrabbles wildly over the left arm as if searching for something, _something_...

He has oil in his throne.

…Their uncle would be _so_ disgusted.

But, bless his uncle for he is his favourite uncle and has fathered his only (possibly, Aumerle still has days) sane cousin and is actually a lot more fatherly than his actual father most of the time, he can’t really _care_ at the moment. Not with Richard looking so _smug_ , not with Richard spinning around at high speed and scrambling back like he’s never been so eager for anything in his _life_ (Which is a lie, but one that he’s perfectly okay with believing).

“Strip,” he echoes as the man thuds to his knees besides him, for if Richard looks so flushed with his over-the-top gown covering most of his body…

“Shut _up_ ,” Richard hisses in reply… But _Obeys_ , surprisingly enough, before he can even sprawl fully across the ground. Strips his outer gown off in an instant, gets to work on the layer beneath a second after that, is soon pale and lithe and _perfect_ besides him exactly like he was meant to be.

…He might be getting oddly soppy.

Oh _well_ , he’s so hard at the moment that he feels like he deserves a reward for even being able to string a few words vaguely together. Possibly money. Or some nice new lands. Or Richard being an actually alright person for more than a few seconds at a time.

…Not that any of those are ever going to happen.

No, not when Richard can smirk at him instead – reach out a hand and wrap it firmly around his cock and _hiss_ (as he tries to choke back whimpers in turn), “ _impatient_ , truly.”

He can barely breathe.

_Especially_ can’t as Richard’s hand draws away, fuck _no_ , only to return wonderfully slick. To pump him once, twice, thrice – until the whimpers may actually be falling out and his nails are scratching bluntly over the stone floor, the air scraping roughly through his teeth and his whole body shaking towards that one point-

Until Richard draws away.

_Again_.

But he doesn’t have the time to be horribly annoyed for long, doesn’t even have the time to let out a _thwarted_ scream of rage, because Richard is already slinging one naked leg over his body. And settling smoothly over his waist again like he’d never left.

…He blinks, when the man arches awkwardly up and tries to slide his fingers between his legs.

He sighs, for the man really should know _better_ by now, and slaps his hand away without a thought. Grabs the pot of oil from him before he can even protest, and slicks his own fingers up as quickly as possible. _Slides_ them between those pale legs as Richard indignantly opens his mouth-

Only to swiftly clamp it shut again.

_Hah_.

The first finger slides in remarkably easily, a testament to how often they’ve done this before. Richard’s lips clamp a little harder, turn white at the force of it, but otherwise he doesn’t react – just keeps about as calm as before.

…Luckily that’s _soon_ fixed.

The second finger has Richard letting out a high groan, and then looking extremely embarrassed about it the moment afterwards. His thighs shake, his shoulders hunch forward slightly, he flushes _bright_ red until every pale inch of him seems highlighted with a certain glow.

Mm.

He can _still_ do better.

He thrusts his two fingers once, twice. Waits for Richard to arch against him before adding a third finger on the third thrust, and then…

Just watches.

Stills, for a long and probably inappropriate moment.

As Richard _screeches_ , slumps along his body until their cheeks are pressed together and he can feel Richard’s every trembling and bony inch against him. His hips almost sharp enough to saw through flesh, his ribs bumping almost uncomfortably along his and his every bit of skin so wonderfully _warm_ – a sweating angel trembling only for him.

…Soppy, again.

Like he gives a _fuck_.

“Screw you, screw _you_ , _screw you_ ,” it takes Richard only an extended moment to recover himself and sit firmly up upon his waist, only a second further to glare in the vague direction of his still moving hand until he removes it and spreads his fingers over the planes of those sharp hips instead “…Screw you. Ready?”

He nods.

…He nods hard enough to almost have his head flying off, tightens his hands on Richard’s hips until he’ll probably leave bruises and silently mouths, ‘yesyesyes _yes_.’

And Richard shuffles back elegantly and _slides_ onto him, one long movement that has the man’s shoulders jerking forwards (again) and his eyes falling shut ( _again_ ) and his own hands clenching so hard that there’ll _definitely_ be bruises, purpling and perfect against Richard’s pale flesh. 

There’s a long pause.

And then Richard clenches around him and he lets another whimper fall out and suddenly they’re _moving_. Hard and fast, deep and sudden in a way that simply _can’t_ last because it is too close and too hot and _ohGodohGodohGod._

Richard moves like a man possessed, riding him like their lives depend upon it. He clenches on as many thrusts as he can manage, gasps roughly through his teeth and places those pale hands right on his chest. And he swears, he _swears_ , that he can feel the sear of them right the way down – through bone and blood and _everything_ until he can only focus on Richard. _Richard_.

In response he tries to act just as possessed, although probably with far less success. He thrusts up as hard as he can, his body actually leaving the floor a few times in a Herculean effort. He keeps his fingers clenched on Richard’s hips, hopes that the man feels him just as deeply. He shudders and whimpers and cries out and ends up actually _writhing_ in a way that’d be embarrassing if not for… _Well_.

They keep moving.

Keep _moving_.

Richard’s pace has started to stutter now, the man moving as if in a dream. His eyes are still shut, his nails have started to dig in, there’s a sheen of sweat on his face that he suspects will linger all day – will hover over the man through God knows how many meetings and meals and miscellaneous interactions with doubtlessly important folk.

The thought appeals to him, he’s not thinking too straight at the moment, and so he goes faster. Even as his own pace stutters, even as everything starts to tighten towards one glorious point. His fingers slip from their position on Richard’s hips, maybe he’s actually cut himself or maybe it’s just the sweat, and splay over those thighs instead. He _howls_ , low and embarrassing, in his throat and tilts his head right back against the stone. The world is starting to go _white_ around him, bleak and drained of colour and with the panting Richard as the only thing in it.

Keep _moving_ …

And they do, they _do_ , they move _together_ for one perfect moment more. Richard’s head tilted right back, his fingers trying not to rip out chunks of flesh, the both of them _shaking_ at it-

And then Richard groans one final time. Tilts forward, _right_ forward, until his lips are somehow vaguely brushing against his earlobe and whispers, “come,” in a voice that he’d obey no matter what. Even in a thunderstorm, even in a battle, even at the end of the world when everything is crumbling apart around them.

“Yes,” he barely manages to choke in reply, and tightens his fingers one last time, “ _come_.”

…And he does.

And Richard follows a second after him, a barely noticed weight slumping down onto his shoulder as he shudders and shakes and discovers that his eyesight might be a bit worse than he once assumed.

There’s a long pause.

Richard finally lifts himself off, seems to hover in the air for a long moment before groaning wearily and slumping down again – one leg still slung over his hips, a nose squashed lazily against his cheek.

There’s another long pause.

And he reaches up an arm, ever so slowly because this _has_ to go wrong, to stroke over Richard’s sweaty back. To count his ribs. To maybe try and convince him to a second go ( _impossible_ , he wasn’t that energetic even in teenage years)… To just hold him close because he _likes_ cuddling and it’s been such a long time since Mary died-

And…

And then it goes wrong.

Of _course_ it does.

Richard sits, before he can even _start_ to get closer. Shakes his arm off with little effort and sighs his most superior sigh, “get up.”

…He does. With a wince, and an awkward bend, and a bit of placing his hands on the floor and scrambling because apparently he is _incapable_ of matching Richard for a single graceful moment.

“I-“ he still tries when he’s up, “I mean, you- I _mean_ -“

“Get dressed,” Richard only orders casually, with a smile – an untouchable king even naked and dishevelled and somehow _still_ with his crown barely clinging onto his curls, “go. You must have business with people, mustn’t you? And I, being king, have even _more_ business of a far more important nature.”

…He hesitates for a miserable moment.

“ _Go_.”

And realizes, quite sharply, that it’ll always be exactly like this. Him kneeling before Richard, him gathering up his clothes, him dressing and leaving the throne room with a resigned bow as the _king_ simply smirks.

…There’s nothing else to say, really.


End file.
